Partial Recall
by Dragon Elexus
Summary: For the most part, Stan has got his memory back. Far as he can tell, at least. Sometimes, though, he forgets stuff. Little things, mostly. Sometimes bigger things. It's not a lot of fun.
**Partial Recall**

Sometimes Stan forgets.

It's never a total mind wipe, not like the first time, when he woke up in middle of the forest, sun on his face, surrounded by the scent of pine trees, and nothing but a warm sense of satisfaction and contentment filling him. Then, he hadn't known what he had lost. He hadn't remembered anything, even how to be angry. Even as the others had gathered around him, and screamed and cried and mourned, he hadn't been able to build up much emotion, one way or another. He'd felt peaceably blank.

It had only been when the first bits of memories had begun slotting into place— _a pig's wet raspy tongue on his face, the hot smell of fireworks, a pair of twin smiles beaming up at him_ — that the fear and desperation had set in. He'd understood, with a sudden, fierce intensity, everything he'd lost. He'd let his family's words flow over them, fill his mind, fill his soul, desperate to remember.

It's mostly back, now. A life history, pieced together, and held in place by what must be the mental equivalent of scotch tape. Because sometimes…

Sometimes, he forgets. Usually something small, but it's terrifying, each any every time, because, what _else_ has he forgotten? What if it all just slips away again? What if he can't get it back?

Stan stands in the kitchen, and tries to remember where he keeps the cutlery.

The kids are leaving. The kids are leaving in just a few hours, and they need a breakfast, and they need a packed lunch for the bus trip, and he can't _remember where he keeps the cutlery!_

Anger surges over the fear. No! He's Stanley Pines! After everything he's worked for, everything he's done, he's not gonna just let himself forget!

He slams open drawers, bangs his fists on the counter top, and there. There they are. Second drawer down, left of the sink. Forks, spoons, knives. He grabs a fistful of each. Now, frying pans. Next to the oven. He wrenches one out, and lets it clatters onto the stove top. Eggs. He's making eggs and bacon. They'll be in the fridge. He practically manhandles the carton, but it doesn't matter. There the eggs are, right where he thought they'd be. Suck it, dementia!

"Careful with those," says a voice from behind him, and Stan nearly drops them.

Stan freezes. Closes his eyes. Fuck, his mind really is slipping.

"Stan?" says Ford's voice, again. And Stan turns.

He's standing there. Stanford, his twin, is standing there, in the kitchen.

He looks different. Older. His hair is grey, his face wrinkled, and he stands with a kind of easy confidence that he doesn't associate with his brother. But it can be nobody else. The glasses, the six fingers, the face which could practically be a mirror of his own.

Next thing Stan knows, he's crossing the kitchen and wrapping the man in a bone crushing hug.

"Stan?" Ford cries, resisting the embrace… and then, after a moment, sinking into it. "Stan, is everything okay?"

"Okay?" Stan asks, almost too choked up to speak. It's _more_ than okay.

His brother is here!

Then, he freezes. Frowns. How? How is he back? It doesn't make any sense. Is this some Gravity Falls weirdness… a shape-shifter or a vision? Or just a good old fashioned hallucination?

Or…?

Slowly, carefully, Ford pulls away from him, looking him over, analyzing his expressions. "Stan," he says. "You've forgotten, haven't you?"

Forgotten?

Stan sighs. Clenches and unclenches his fists. Yeah. That makes sense. "I… I think so, yeah." He takes a ragged breath. "Remind me?"

"Of course," says Ford. "Of course. You should sit down. And put down those eggs."

He looks at his hand. He's still holding the half-crushed egg carton. Yolk and egg white are leaking all over his fingers. "Yeergh," Stan complains. He drops the carton on the counter-top, washes his hands quickly in the sink, before wiping them off with a towel. Tries to ignore how much they're shaking. He falls into a chair. Ford has taken a seat across from him, watching with an owlish stare. "Tell me, Sixer."

"You saved me, Stanley," says Ford. "You worked for years. You had my first journal, you managed to find the other two, and you repaired the dimensional portal from scratch. You brought me back."

Stan sits there, thinking. As before, pieces slowly slot into place. He could already remember the desperation, the guilt, the long nights of studying, researching, worrying, ploughing his way through physics textbooks and equations way beyond him. Other things come back, now. He can remember triumph, as he placed all three journals together, a clear picture finally forming. Sneaking out of the Shack, trying to pretend this way just another con, even as he pulled on a chemical-hazard suit and snuck into a Nuclear Power Plant. Cold fear slicing through him, desperation even more desperate; government agents, the twins carried away in a car, handcuffs, weightlessness, ragged breathing, pounding fear, a swirling rainbow of stars, Mabel crying, a huge explosion…

… Ford, climbing out of the wreckage. Stan could have cried.

He definitely feels threatening prickle of tears now. He hastily pushes down on them. "Yeah. Yeah, I saved you. 'Course I did."

He frowns, another memory slamming into him. He touches his jaw. "Wait. Did you _punch me_?"

"… Yes."

He can remember the impact. The shock, the pain, the anger. He feels them all over again, and recoils backwards. " _Why_?"

"Stan-" Ford looks stricken. "I'm sorry. Look, it was stupid of me, I shouldn't have done it—"

Stan waves away the apology, although secretly, he's pleased he got one. "But _why_ did you do it?"

Ford tugs at the collar of his trench-coat. "The portal had the potential to create the apocalypse. Destroy the whole world, galaxy, even! I couldn't believe that you'd risk all that just to me back."

"That's you, Sixer," Stan says. "Always worrying about stupid stuff like that. Apocalypse, pssh."

There's a pained expression on his brother's face, and another icy realisation courses through Stan's brain. "… oh. Fuck. It **did** cause the apocalypse, didn't it?"

Ford nods, but Stan hardly needs the confirmation Already, memories are coming back, the cause-and-effect rippling through his brain. The sky turning red, giant flying eyebrows, screams echoing through the forest, long nights hunkered in the Mystery Shack with about forty other survivors, eating canned meat, a fist of fear clenched in his belly that he refuses to show on his face, a ridiculous suicide mission, the sheet overwhelming sense of helplessness, and shit, his brother's invention and foolishness _literally caused the apocalypse_ , and everyone's still idolising him, thinking he's so smart, and so **clever** , well, if that's true, how come he's spent the past four days a freakin' statue?! " _Grammar Stanley_ ," he says, and that's it, that's the _last straw_ , he gives up thirty years of his life for this guy and he doesn't get a shred of thanks and he is **not** gonna hold his hand, and fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , the world's gonna end and the kids are gonna die, and it's all his fault… He needs to fix this, he'll do anything…. He'll wear his brother's clothes, and take his name, he's done it all before, and he'll shake a demon's hand… He'll punch that demon in the face, and watch him shatter into a million pieces

He watches the flames around them, feeling them eating away at his mind and his self, and he can't find it in himself to feel sad

 _And_

And

Stan takes a thick, raspy breath, and suddenly, he's back in the kitchen and his brother is watching him like he's gonna break and, "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Stan grumbles.

"… You sure?"

"I just need a drink."

"It's eight in the morning."

"Coffee, then."

"Okay." Ford stands up. "I can get you that."

Ford goes to the ancient coffee machine that he messed around with last week, so that it can run on sunlight and make practically infinite amounts of the stuff. Stan remembers that now. He remembers grumbling that the coffee it made didn't taste as good as the natural stuff, even though it does. Better, even.

The kitchen is filled with the sound of boiling water. From upstairs, there are distant thumps as the kids pack.

The two Stans watch each other.

"You've really remembered?" Ford finally asks, carefully.

"Yeah. Think so."

"Good." And then, more quietly. "Good."

Silence, aside from the boiling of water. Ford gets a mug. Easily finds the sugar, and stirs a spoonful in for him. All these years, and he still remembers how Stan likes his coffee. Which is good, because Stan's not sure if he knew himself.

"… it's not your fault, you know." Ford says it as he stirs.

"Yeah, it was."

"No- I mean. Okay, yes." Ford turns, face carefully blank, as he places the mug on the kitchen table in front of him. "The apocalypse couldn't have happened without the portal, and it was foolish of you to try and rebuild it, considering all the warnings I left. But… you weren't the one who built it in the first place. You weren't the one naive enough to get tricked by a literal demon."

Stan shrugs. He takes a sip of coffee. It's hot and sweet.

Another silence.

"I should have held your hand, though," Stan eventually says.

"Hmm?"

"There we were, about to act out some magical prophecy voodoo, and I couldn't act like a damn adult for two minutes."

"We got through without it."

"Sure," says Stan. "But just barely. Would have been a lot easier to just shoot Cipher with some magical power blast, or whatever. Instead, we nearly got everybody killed, and now I can't even remember where I keep the forks."

Ford bites his lip. Stan knows that look. It's his Thinking expression.

"What is it, Pointdexter?"

"The prophecy never specified what kind of power the wheel would unleash."

"Yeah?" says Stan, taking another sip of coffee. "So, what? You saying that maybe it was a bunch of mumbo jumbo after all?"

"Not… exactly. It's just… well, we _did_ all hold hands, if only a few moments. And ultimately, Cipher was defeated. So perhaps…"

Stan raises an eyebrow. "You saying the big prophecy power was that it got us to stop fighting for long enough to pull a fast one on Bill?"

"I was going to say 'love', actually. But yes."

Stan groans. "You've been hanging around Mabel too much."

Ford quirks a grin. "And is that a bad thing?"

"…no," Stan admits. Then he looks away, then gets up, groaning at the random body pains. "Enough chatting. Help me get breakfast ready. Maybe there are still some uncrushed eggs."

For a moment, he thinks Ford's gonna say something— something concerned, or sentimental— but after a beat, he just says, "I can chop vegetables."

Stan smiles. Maybe his brother's right.

Doesn't really matter, far as he's concerned.

oOoOoOoOo

 **Author's Note:** I am such a sucker for amnesia, it is not even funny. I am not ever going to get over these grumpy old men.


End file.
